Midnight Habits
by skywalkor
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Sherlock's not there anymore and John's got problem getting over the fact that he's gone... A drabble, perhaps a bit angsty. From John's POV!


_**Hello people!**__ I'm back with another Johnlock drabble, post reichenbach and pretty sad I guess. So here you go. Keep in mind that English isn't my main language, so grammar and spelling misstakes might occur! _

_Sherlock (c) BBC and characters (c) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!_

* * *

He'd done this too many times.

It wasn't appropriate, it wasn't right at all… But somehow, he just couldn't resist.

And now it was time again.

Legs swung over the bedside and his head fell slowly down into shivering hands; a loud sigh slipping out between dry lips.

It was there again. The lump. The nasty, growing little lump that so eagerly fed on every single happy memory he could possibly remember.

The doctor stood up as a lame try to shake the bad feelings away. It didn't work. Obviously.  
Naked feet tripping over the floor, leaving the room and the warm bed for something more comforting. It was a need. He couldn't say no.

Trying to not awake the landlady on the floor below, he took slow steps over the creaking wooden floor.  
Stopped.  
Not a single sound was heard.

A single sigh and a moment to calm down was all he needed to continue to more or less drag himself towards his goal; the wooden door on the other side of the room.

Creak creak; slow moves.  
When he reached it, he took a deep breath. Hands were still shivering when he put them both on the door handle, gently pressing it down.  
The door slid open.

He hadn't exactly expected light and warmth, life and motions - nor a human being - his friend - sitting on the bed like always, with a cup of tea in his hand and the violin in his other.  
But somehow, he was still disappointed when the room openly stared at him; offering nothing but gray walls, empty wardrobes and an untouched bed. The sheets were on, but unused.

This was _his_ room.

They bed hadn't been used for a while.  
Not since he'd been there the last time.

John tiredly walked up to it, sat down on and moved his hand over the cold, almost sterile sheet. The greedy lump in his stomach expanded.

With a suppressed sound he fell back, gave up struggling with himself and just let his upper body smash into the fabric and the softness in the bed. With a deep breath he sucked in every scent, every particle of his flat mate that was left.  
There was barely any.

Seeking comfort, he snuggled up to the top, crawled down under the blanket and turned around on his side so he could bury half of his face in the pillow, breathing in breathing out.

Repeating the action.

The blanket pulled up over his ear, eyes shutting close and his neck, shoulder and back relaxing for the first time in such a long time.  
The smell of the pillow came as a small shock, it felt like his heart was going to stop. Stop forever and never never ever start beating again.

Without noticing, tears silently fell down his cheeks and wetting down the fabric.  
And slowly, he fell into peaceful sleep.

* * *

It was morning.

The pillow was still wet, his body was still aching and the lump was still growing, eating his anxiety.  
He didn't want to leave the bed. But he really should get up, really should move before Mycroft invaded the place or Mrs Huddson came with a kettle with tea.

He stood up. The sudden rush of blood to his head made him a little dizzy, so an arm swung up automatically to grab something to hold on to.  
By accident, the back of his hand hit the bedside table. It didn't just hurt - it gave away a loud noise that probably echoed all they way out…

Silent, delicate foot steps made the floor on the other side of the door creaked. His body froze.

As the door shut open the old lady almost ran into the room, looking as if she was hoping for a miracle, longing to see what she wanted to see so badly, and what she had dreamed about these past days.

"Sherlo-"  
A voice filled with hope.

He hated to see her like that.  
He knew that he was exactly the same.

"No, Mrs Huddson. It's just me."

Her shoulders fell back, her smile faded and turned into a sad grimace that told him that she was right about to burst into tears.

"Oh John…"

In a second he was by her side, wrapping his arms around her. The room was spinning, turned into an eternal spiral of gray gray and gray…  
Her light arms around his back.

They comforted each other.  
Neither of them were sure if it really worked, but at least it was a desperate try to make the day just a tiny bit lighter.

The woman sighed.  
"I've prepared some tea, dear. Let's go."

With those words he released his grip, and she tripped out through the door and towards the kitchen, as fast as her legs could carry her.  
She was escaping.  
He was just behind her, stopping by the door frame just to turn around and take a last look at the half-empty room.

He bit his dry underlip and smiled a sad smile.  
This was it.

"Goodbye Sherlock."

* * *

_Thank you for reading! _


End file.
